Friday Ramble - Thoughts Before Yule

After a time of decay comes the turning point. The powerful light that has been banished returns.There is movement, but it is not brought about by force; thus the movement is natural, arising spontaneously. For this reason, the transformation of the old becomes easy. The idea of RETURN is based on the course of nature. The movement is cyclic, and the course completes itself. Therefore it is not necessary to hasten anything artificially. Everything comes of itself at the appointed time. This is the meaning of heaven and earth.

I Ching Hexagram 24 - Fu / Return (The Turning Point)

Here we are again, nearing winter's 'still point of the turning year'. The ancient festival of Yule falls on Sunday, and its observance begins at sunset tomorrow evening. The occasion celebrates the return of the light, and it is one of four pivotal astronomical coordinates in the calendar year, along with the vernal equinox (Ostara), the summer solstice (Litha), and the autumn equinox (Mabon). The I Ching hexagram in the first paragraph of this post describes the observance beautifully. 

South of the equator, the four seasons are reversed, and Yule takes place on or around June 21st. If you live in the southern hemisphere, you are nearing midsummer and about to celebrate the summer solstice, Litha. Wherever you make your home in the great wide world, Happy Solstice to you!

Yule (also called Midwinter, or the Winter Solstice) is one of the two times in the year when the sun seems to stand still for a brief interval. The word "solstice" has been around in one shape or another for many centuries, and it comes to us from the Latin noun sōlstitium, itself a blend of the noun sōl [sun] and the related verb sistere [to stand still]. So, the word solstice simply means "sun standing still". At the beginning of our wordy trek are the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) roots  *seH₂wol-, and *sH₂un-, both meaning simply "sun". Of course, it is we earthlings and our dear little planet who are in motion, not the magnificent star that lights our way.

December days are cloudy for the most part. Sunny days are rare, and they seem to be the coldest days of all. The earth in the woods is frozen rock hard, and this year there is snow under the old trees. There is a sense of movement in the landscape, a feeling that change is on its way. The word chthonic always comes to mind at this time of the year. Somewhere in the earth below our wandering feet, small entities sleep and wait to rise when the northern world is warm again.

Sunlight is a scarce quantity here in winter, and we look forward to having a few more minutes of sunlight every day after this weekend - until next June when sunlight hours will begin to wane again. The first few months of next year will be frigid going, but hallelujah, there will be sunlight and blue sky now and again.

As I kindle a fire at nightfall, I think of the ancestors. Huddled together for warmth in their caves and bothies, they fed the flames burning on their open hearths and lighted tallow lamps to drive the dark away. They watched winter skies hopefully for signs of the sun's return, and how they would have rejoiced when the earth's northern hemisphere began to tilt back toward the star that dances at the heart of our solar system. Lighting a candle or building a fire on one's hearth is a powerful gesture. In putting flame to wick or kindling, we join our hallowed foremothers in the joyful, spirited and fearless circle that has existed since the beginning times. 

Beau and I will have a quiet Yule lunch with a dear friend. We will walk in the woods and leave small gifts for wild kin, make sure that the birds visiting the feeders in our garden have suet and seed and bits of festive fruit. There will be candlelight and mugs of tea, clementines, cider and gingerbread cookies. We will look out as night falls and give thanks for the fruitful darkness and the return of Helios to the world. My departed love will be with us in spirit - he enjoyed celebrating the solstices and equinoxes, and he loved our Yule festivities most of all.

Happy Yule (or Litha) to you and your tribe. May light grace your life.

Thursday Poem - At the Winter Solstice

Owl hoots three times in the far woods,
fair warning for all small creatures
scurrying to their burrows.

Are we not still and always
those crouching figures
who flee the heavenly alchemy?
Three times in the crackling air,
Owl hoots for us.

*

Wind plays the drums of snow...
staccato taps,
crescendo off the roofs,
flourish of shuddering branches.
Ice snaps its castanets,
its daggers.

Atonal music of the darkest days
needs the most fearless,
subtle listeners.

*

Those strumming flamenco
fingers of sunlight
are a long time away from now.

Now we go comforted
in dreams and ceremonies,
flaming our star-speck candles,
raising our voices against that other music,
drowning out the forever
at night’s heart.

*

Look up! The wheel is turning.
The spectacular crowd of stars,
the tangle of dimensions
jostle for our attention.
Salute the birth of everything holy.

Dolores Stewart (Riccio)

At Yule, we celebrate the triumphant return of old Helios, the ascendance of light in the fertile darkness of winter. This morning's poem was written by the late Dolores Stewart (Riccio) and published in her exquisite Doors to the Universe. It is posted here with her kind permission. She was my friend.

Wordless Wednesday - Catching the Sun

A Tree Full of Reindeer

One doesn't have to cut browse for the reindeer galloping around in the old crabapple tree or take windfall apples and other fodder to their winter lodgings. My late husband and I did that for many years, dragging toboggans of cut cedar and other stuff to deer yards in the deep woods during harsh winters. That is fine - most of my time in the last few weeks has been spent moving snow around, and there would have been little or no time for feeding deer. These days, Beau and I would be doing it alone. 

The caribou of the Canadian north are reindeer, and their name in this country was coined by early 17th century French explorers who borrowed it from an indigenous Mi'kmaq word meaning "one who paws". Both genders grow antlers, and that makes them unique among deer species. Males drop their racks after the autumn mating season, but females retain theirs all winter and use them to excavate food sources in deep snow, important because most mature does are pregnant during the long white season. The antlered reindeer in my tree are all female. What ho!

Our red holiday ornaments are cheerful, and I like to leave them in place until spring.  That means that at some point this winter I will be burrowing through three or four feet of snow in the front yard to unearth (or rather unsnow) those that have been loosened by the wind and fallen out of the tree. The exercise is good fun.  

If the girls were real and not ornaments swaying back and forth in the old crabapple, they would be hoofing about in the garden, digging holes in the snow for nosh and munching on the cedar hedge until it was a thicket of forlorn twigs. 

Advent Sun Wheel Wreath (Week 4)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth. They go back to the upper Paleolithic: the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe. I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.

Gary Snyder, from A Controversy of Poets

A gathering of poets is a controversy? It would also be a good word for a bunch of salty, independent, elderly women. Where do I sign up?

Waiting for Breakfast

Friday Ramble - Winter Mornings Are Made of This

I lurch awake before sunrise and make coffee, then lean against the counter and wait for the day to begin. As always, there is the ardent hope that there will be sunlight, that the sun's rays will reach the kitchen window, passing between the slats of the wooden fence on the east side of the garden in their journey. Sometimes there is sunlight on these winter mornings, but much of the time, there is not.

A few weeks ago, I purchased a decent pair of sun specs for myself as a birthday gift, so given the puckish (and often downright contrary) attitude of the weather deities about such doings, we may not see sunlight here until April.

On we go, or rather trudge. I inhale a lovely hot mug of caffeinated black stuff, bundle up in every warm garment I own and lurch outside to move snow from thresholds, verandas and walkways. With a little luck, the north wind will not turn up and put everything back where it was when I started. There has been a lot of wind here in recent days though, and it probably will.

In a week or so, our days will begin to stretch out languorously, but it will be a month or two before real change can be seen and felt in the sun's trajectory through old wooden fences, icy window panes and snow crowned shrubbery. The light is oro pallido this morning, pale buttery gold with a hint of mother-of-pearl.

Some mornings, skies are breathtaking at dawn, their deep blue shading gloriously to pink and gold and purple near the horizon, but the weather is wickedly cold for the most part. Thermometer readings of -30 degrees (Celsius) are not unusual around here in December. Whatever the thermometer says, there is a fine elusive old truth resting out there in the interstices between earth and sky at dawn, in the dance of light and shadow in the snowbound landscape.

On woodland rambles, I trace sharp lines of shadow in the white stuff with my eyes, measure the changes in their inclination from day to day. Warmer, brighter times are already on their way, but we have a very long way to go before they get here, and sometimes spring seems years away rather than months. Until it gets here, I have resolved to look for dancing motes of light in the world around me every time I go out. Perhaps I will encounter a few within myself too.

As we potter along, we (Beau and I) try to remember that deep within their dreaming roots, the trees in our beloved woodland cradle the light.

Thursday Poem - Chains of Fire

Each dawn, kneeling before my hearth,
Placing stick, crossing stick
On dry eucalyptus bark
Now the larger boughs, the log
(With thanks to the tree for its life)
Touching the match, waiting for creeping flame.
I know myself linked by chains of fire
To every woman who has kept a hearth.

In the resinous smoke
I smell hut and castle and cave,
Mansion and hovel.
See in the shifting flame my mother
And grandmothers out over the world
Time through, back to the Paleolithic
In rock shelters where flint struck first sparks
(Sparks aeons later alive on my hearth)
I see mothers , grandmothers back to beginnings,
Huddled beside holes in the earth
of igloo, tipi, cabin,
Guarding the magic no other being has learned,
Awed, reverent, before the sacred fire
Sharing live coals with the tribe.

For no one owns or can own fire,
it lends itself.
Every hearth-keeper has known this.
Hearth-less, lighting one candle in the dark
We know it today.
Fire lends itself,
Serving our life
Serving fire.

At Winter solstice, kindling new fire
With sparks of the old
From black coals of the old,

Seeing them glow again,

Shuddering with the mystery,

We know the terror of rebirth.

Elsa Gidlow

Wordless Wednesday - Evergreen

Rattle and Hum

It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the clatter of the wind skating across the roof with its freight of frozen twigs, the sound of small icicles crashing in shards on the deck, trees in the garden shaking their snow garments loose in a long slow dance. Light snow is falling, but the descending white stuff makes no sound, at least from in here. In the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi coffee machine, the rattle and hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.

By rights, there should be the sound of the toaster too, but it will be a while until I can even think about toast or waffles This is "bang up" weather for migraines, and I have awakened with one. I thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but have opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead. Just holding it and breathing in its scent is comforting.

The stuff in my cup is as black as night and has the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel. It could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the inky lagoon, and a splendid creamy froth floats on the surface. The fragrance of the freshly ground Logdriver Espresso from Bridgehead is ambrosial and so are the glossy beans in their canister. Headache or no, I consider drawing pictures in the foam.

Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when the weather is like this? With beaker in hand, I look through my collection of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards, stickers and notebooks - the little ones with maps of France, fleurs-de-lis, French postage stamps, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre museum, Notre-Dame Cathedral or the Eiffel Tower gracing their covers.

When the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I will curl up in a corner and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas. Yup, I can do this.

Advent Sun Wheel Wreath (Week 3)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Tonight, I walk. I am watching the sky. I think of the people who came before me and how they knew the placement of the stars in the sky, watched the moving sun long and hard enough to witness how a certain angle of light touched a stone only once a year. Without written records, they knew the gods of every night, the small, fine details of the world around them and the immensity above them.

It's winter and there is smoke from the fires. The square, lighted windows of houses are fogging over. It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another. Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.

Linda Hogan, Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World

Grilled, Roasted, Riced

As reluctant as I am to admit such things, I have been feeling rather down since the anniversary of Irv's passing last week, and there have been troubling developments in "big life stuff" to cope with too. The holidays will be quiet this year.

The best thing to do at such times is to stay busy, and I have been distracting myself with projects like burrowing into the pantry and tossing over-the-hill condiments, tidying closets, shelves and cupboards etc. How many jars of minced ginger does one really need, and more importantly, how many does she have room for? 

All the toing and froing has not done much for my appetite though, and it was time to do something about that state of affairs last night. The treatment for the malaise was grilled tilapia, lovingly anointed with a soupçon of butter and Meyer lemon, plated with a small heap of savoury rice, and a few lightly roasted vegetables. Meyer lemons are just beginning to appear in local markets, and the little golden wonders are one of the things I love best about this time of the year (along with Moroccan clementines, blood oranges, persimmons, cranberries and pomegranates).

In the best of all possible worlds, there would be no blood sugar issues, and I would be turning out enough macarons, mille-feuilles, chocolatines and profiteroles to stuff a bakery, but that is not in the cards. One has to draw a line somewhere. Did I mention croissants? There would certainly be croissants. A good cup of coffee and a fine French pastry are two of life's most exquisite pleasures. 

Prodding the tilapia last night, stirring the basmati rice and poking the veggies with an old wooden spoon was a treat, and the kitchen smelled wonderful while I was doing it. Culinary exercises are the best kind of mojo, and I must remember that.

I don't plan to start taking photos of my efforts in the kitchen and posting them here, but last night's exercise lifted my spirits, and it made my heart glad. Yum.

Friday Ramble - Qarrtsiluni Days

There is always so much toing and froing this month, cards and postcards, home baking, wrapped gifts, tissue paper and ribbons, Christmas trees and decorations, holiday outings with friends. How does one do it all when the light in December is scant, and many tasks must be undertaken in darkness?

I think of these days before Yule as being qarrtsiluni days. That lovely Inuit word with its bewildering arrangement of consonants means "sitting together in the dark, waiting for something wonderful to happen", and that is how these darkling intervals at the end of the calendar year feel to me.

Qarrtsiluni is a northern thing. Before a hunt, Inuit hunters gather quietly indoors and sit silently in the darkness, no lanterns or other sources of light. They wait for inspiration, for a song to come to them that honors the spirit of the whale and its gifts to the tribe. When the song comes into their collective conscious, they sing it together. For the most part, we are not indigenous whale hunters, but their rite is a beautiful way of honoring the fertile darkness that enfolds us at this time of the year, the stillness before something luminous and uplifting comes into being. 

The word was also the name of an excellent literary journal published online from 2005 to 2013. The magazine curated a vibrant literary community on the web where both gifted amateurs and professional writers could display their work, and I was sorry when it ceased publication. Its archive is still online.

There is something similar going on here (no whale hunt, thank Herself, and we definitely don't want me singing). We hang out in the stygian gloom, try to stay warm, down endless mugs of hot stuff and wait for the light of the sun to shift, to slant back in our direction. Things are the other way around of course. It is earthlings who are in motion, not the dazzling star at the center of our universe.

Winter's fruitful darkness is a doorway through which we pass to ready ourselves for an exuberant blooming somewhere up the trail. Beyond our nightfall turnings at the postern of the old calendar year, light, warmth and wonder await us.

Thursday Poem - Come to Dust

Spirit, rehearse the journeys of the body

that are to come, the motions

of the matter that held you.

Rise up in the smoke of palo santo.

Fall to the earth in the falling rain.

Sink in, sink down to the farthest roots.

Mount slowly in the rising sap

to the branches, the crown, the leaf-tips.

Come down to earth as leaves in autumn

to lie in the patient rot of winter.

Rise again in spring’s green fountains.

Drift in sunlight with the sacred pollen

to fall in blessing.

                       All earth’s dust

has been life, held soul, is holy.

Ursula K. Le Guin

Wordless Wednesday - In Hampton Park

Frost and Morning Field

Early December days in this corner of the world are all too short, and they are cold. The wind is icy on our old bones, and they protest their ordeal.

One is grateful for small things in the dark days of the year.  The frozen grass is crunchy underfoot, and the frosted trees on the edge of the field are skeletal, but oh, the morning light. Everything sings and dances. Everything sparkles.

The Solstice is only a few weeks away, and thank the Old Wild Mother, daylight will return after that, little by little. We (Beau and I) reckon we can do this darkling stuff, and by golly, we will. There will be creaking and grumbling until then, but we will drink in the scant light of these dusky days as if it is a fine French brandy.

When December 21 arrives, we will be jubilant, and we will be downright silly. We will lurch about in wobbly gladness and try not to fall over.

Advent Sun Wheel Wreath (Week 2)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

I don't think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you put the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem that children will speak for you when you're dead.

Tom Stoppard, from The Real Thing
July 3, 1937 - November 29, 2025

November Woods

Friday Ramble - All Together

The day after tomorrow (Sunday) is the anniversary of my husband's passing from pancreatic cancer. Irv took his last breath at 9:23 AM on November 30, 2019 as I held him, and it feels like only yesterday that he left us and went on ahead.

To say that life without my soulmate has been painful is understating things and then some. There are no adequate words for the situation. I loved the man more than life itself, and it is still difficult to wrap my mind around the notion of years of life without him. Flourishing is not in the cards. Just surviving is hard work.

For many years, I was married to a guy with a razor-sharp mind, a dry wit, a fine sense of irony and a great laugh. The natural world was an endless source of delight to him, and he never wearied of its grandeur and its beauty. He was passionate about trees, rocks and rivers, fields and fens, birds, bugs and woodland critters, sunrises and sunsets, full moons and starry nights. 

He loved his tribe unconditionally. He loved this planet fiercely, and he loved rambling its wild places. Ramble we did by golly, hand in hand and all over the place, packs on our backs, notebooks in our pockets, binoculars around our necks and our doggy sidekicks trotting along with us. I could not have had a more wonderful companion if I had written him into being myself, and I simply could not believe my good fortune. I look back on our life together with amazement and gratitude.

Now it is Beau and I who wander through the great wide world together, in the flesh anyway. Cassie and Spencer, traveled beyond the fields we know long ago, but they are right here with Irv, and all three are walking along in the woods with Beau and I. There will be five of us on the snowbound trail this winter, but some of us will not need parkas and snowshoes or leave paw prints in the white stuff.

There is comfort in knowing that we will walk these hills together, forever. A fine untrammeled wildness dwells in our blood and bones, all of us.

Thursday Poem - Thanksgiving

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills—
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.

The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.

Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: “For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful.”

 Lynn Ungar from Blessing the Bread

Wordless Wednesday - Dancing for Breakfast

At the Bend in the Creek

We have rung every possible seasonal weather change in recent days, the pendulum oscillating from snow and bitter cold to rain and above zero temperatures. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth we go. 

What to do? A walk on an overcast day is the ticket, dressing warmly and keeping to the area around the creek sheltered by tall old trees. The temperature hovers around zero, but there is a bitter north wind, and our fingers and toes tingle as we (Beau and I) potter along. There are footprints in the snow along the creek's verges, the tracks of birds and field mice, cottontail rabbits, now and then a raccoon. This morning, there are also the prints of a weasel (or ermine as it is known in winter when its fur turns white). Not surprising as the little creature is a fierce and very proficient mouser.

A few days ago, the little waterway was starting to open again, but it was cold overnight, and the channel has iced up again except for an opening where the water flows a little faster. In that small and hopeful aperture, the icy water sparkles, holding clouds and light and whiskery branches. It sings blithely of light returning, and it counsels patience. It reminds me that we are flowing too, even when we seem to be standing still or frozen in place. Under my parka, boots and woolly hat, there beats an ebullient heart. Little rivers run through me, singing as they go.

Advent Sun Wheel Wreath (Week 1)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

You really don't have to lose everything and travel to a remote valley to discover that the world is always rushing forward to teach us, and that the greatest thing we can do is stand there, open and available, and be taught by it. There is no limit to what this cracked and broken and achingly beautiful world can offer, and there is equally no limit to our ability to meet it.

Each day, the sun rises and we get out of bed. Another day has begun and bravely, almost recklessly, we stagger into it not knowing what it will bring to us. How will we meet this unpredictable, untamable human life? How will we answer its many questions and challenges and delights? What will we do when we find ourselves, stumble over ourselves, encounter ourselves, once again, in the kitchen?

Dana Velden, Finding Yourself in the Kitchen: Kitchen Meditations

and Inspired Recipes from a Mindful Cook

A Yuletide Reading List

This is a holiday tradition, my list of written materials about the winter holiday season and the return of the light to the north. Many of these books are out of print, but they can sometimes be found in used book shops, and they are often happy campers in your local library. May the works below be a light in your window, a red shawl around your shoulders, a pair of fuzzy socks, a mug of something hot and nourishing, a fire on your hearth conveying comfort, fellowship and festive spirit this holiday season.

No Yule interval would be complete without reading Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising sequence. The five volumes are: Over Sea, Under Stone, The Dark is Rising, Greenwitch, The Grey King and Silver on the Tree. There is also John Masefield's Box of Delights, a childhood favorite, and at least four of my late friend Dolores Stewart Riccio's delightful Circle novels take place at (or near) Yule. I also read the late Phil Rickman's novel, December. He was a friend. 

 Christmas Folklore and Superstitions, 
A.R. Bane

The Oxford Book of Days,

Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens

Echoes of Magic: A Study of Seasonal Festivals through the Ages,

C.A. Burland

The Book of Christmas Folklore,
Tristram Potter Coffin

Lights of Winter: Winter Celebrations Around the World,

Heather Conrad and DeForest Walker

Medieval Holidays and Festivals: A Calendar

of Celebrations, Madeleine Pelner Cosman

Christmas and Christmas Lore, T.G. Crippen

The Return of the Light: Twelve Tales from Around the World, for the Winter Solstice, 

Carolyn McVickar Edwards

Christmas, A Biography, Cynthia Flanders

The Magic of the Winter Solstice: Seasonal Celebrations to Honour

Nature's Ever-turning Wheel, 

Danu Forest

Yule: History, Lore and Celebration,

Anna Franklin 

A Calendar of Festivals: Traditional

Celebrations, Songs, Seasonal Recipes

and Things to Make, Marian Green

Winter Magic, Sarah Haydon 

The Sun in the Church: Cathedrals As Solar

Observatories, John L. Heilbron

Celebrate the Solstice: Honoring the Earth's

Seasonal Rhythms Through Festival and

Ceremony, Richard Heinberg

Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual

Year in Britain, Britain, Ronald Hutton

The Winter Solstice, Ellen Jackson

The Dance of Time: The Origins of the Calendar, Michael Judge

 

The Solstice Evergreen: History, Folklore and Origins of the Christmas Tree,

Sheryl Karas

Perpetual Almanack of Folklore,

Charles Kightly

Sacred Celebrations: A Sourcebook,

Glennie Kindred

Beyond the Blue Horizon: Myths and Legends of the Sun, Moon Stars, and Planets,

E.C. Krupp

The Ancient Celtic Festivals: and How

We Celebrate Them Today,

Clare Walker Leslie and Frank E. Gerace

Celebrations Of Light : A Year of Holidays Around the World,

Nancy Luenn and Mark Bender

 Llewellyn's Little Book of Yule, Jason Mankey

The Winter Solstice: The Sacred Traditions

Christmas, John Matthews and Caitlin Matthews

Rituals of Celebration: Honoring the Seasons of Life Through the Wheel of the Year,

Jane Meredith

Christmas in Ritual and Tradition,

Clement A. Miles

The Hedgewitch Book of Days, Spells Rituals

and Recipes for the Magical Year,

Mandy Mitchell

Yule: A Celebration of Light and Warmth,

Dorothy Morrison

The Provenance Press Guide to the Wiccan

Year: A Year Round Guide to Spells, Rituals,

and Holiday Celebrations, Judy Ann Nock

The Modern Witchcraft Guide to the Wheel

of the Year: From Samhain to Yule, Your

Guide to the Wiccan Holidays,

Judy Ann Nock

Sacred Origins of Profound Things:

The Stories Behind the Rites and Rituals of the World's Religions,

Charles Panati

Yule: Rituals, Recipes and Lore for the Winter Solstice, Susan Pesznecker

The Shortest Day: Celebrating the Winter Solstice,

Wendy Pfeffer

Christmas Folklore, Cory Nelson and Kyle Pressly

Celebrating the Winter Solstice, Theresa Reel

The Shortest Day: Celebrating the Winter Solstice,

Wendy Pfeffer and Jesse Reisch

The Old Magic of Christmas: Yuletide Traditions for

the Darkest Days of the Year, Linda Raedisch

Pagan Christmas: The Plants, Spirits, and Rituals at

the Origins of Yuletide, Christian Rätsch, Claudia

Müller-Ebeling

Keeping Christmas: Yuletide Traditions In Norway and

the New Land, Kathleen Stokker

When Santa Was A Shaman: Ancient Origins of Santa

Claus and the Christmas Tree, Tony van Renterghem

How To Celebrate Winter Solstice, Teresa Villegas

The Fires of Yule: A Keltelven Guide for Celebrating

the Winter Solstice, Montague Whitsel

The Wicca Cookbook: Recipes, Ritual and Lore,

Jamie Wood

Friday Ramble - Calling the Sun Home

Herons, geese and loons have departed for balmier lodgings somewhere further south. Rivers and lakes in the eastern Ontario highlands are still and silent without their summer residents. Nights and early mornings are cold. Beau and I dress warmly when we go out because there is always an icy wind. Boreus, god of the north wind, is in residence, and he is making his blustery presence felt. 

On early morning rambles, fallen leaves crunch pleasingly under our feet, and we examine the frozen puddles along the trail for woodland snippets suspended in the ice. Near home, the north wind rattles the eaves of the little blue house in the village and sets the whiskery trees nearby in raspy motion.

When night falls, I pull draperies closed and shut out the gloom beyond the windows, taking refuge, comfort and great pleasure in small seasonal rites. I light scented candles, brew pots of tea, knead bread dough and stir mugs of hot chocolate, experiment with recipes for curries and paellas, sketch and read. I plot gardens for next year (more roses and herbs, perhaps a Medicine Wheel garden), craft grand and fabulous schemes which will probably never see the light of day. I do a little dancing from time to time, but my efforts are closer to lurching than anything else.

We are nearing the end of November, and in a few weeks, days will begin to lengthen again. It will be some time until we notice a real difference in our daylight hours, but at least we will be on our way, and for that reason, Yule just may be my favorite day in the whole turning year. When the winter solstice arrives, there will be celebrations and silliness to drive away the darkness and welcome old Helios back to the world. He is still here of course - it's the earth's seasonal wobble that makes him seem more distant than he actually is at this time of the year. We and our planet are the ones in motion, not the magnificent star at the center of our universe.

Beginning Sunday night (November 23rd) and continuing until Yule, I will light a candle at dusk every Sunday night in a practice called the Advent Sun Wheel, four weeks and four candles, a fifth festive candle to be lit on the eve of the Winter Solstice. Now in its twentieth year, the observance was crafted by the late Helen Farias, founder of the Beltane Papers. Helen passed beyond the fields we know in 1994, and her creation has been carried on by friends, first by Waverly Fitzgerald and since 2004 by Beth Owls Daughter. Waverly passed beyond the fields we know in December 2019, but she will be with us in spirit as we light our candles. She always is.

In touching match to candlewick, I join a circle of wise women and kindred spirits in far flung places, bright spirits like Beth, Joanna Powell Colbert and many others. I am not so wise myself, but that is quite all right. Together we will honor the earth and her fruitful darkness, and we will welcome the sun home with warm thoughts and healing energies. This has been a difficult year. May there be light ahead for all of us.

One needs only a wreath and five candles to participate in this observance. At sunset this coming Sunday, light the first candle in your wreath and spend a little time in quiet reflection, then blow out the candle when you are done. On the following Sunday at sunset, light the first candle and a second candle too... and so on and so on until the Winter Solstice when the fifth and last candle of the ritual is lit.

Magpie creature that I am and ever a passionate collector of seasonal lore, I am very interested in your own "before Yule" practices.

Thursday Poem - November Song

Praise the light of late November,

the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there's left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks,

hulls, shells, the architecture of trees.

Praise the meadow of dried weeds:

yarrow, goldenrod, chicory, the remains

of summer. Praise the blue sky that hasn't

cracked. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt

of leaves that covers the grass:

Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum, Sugar Maple.

Though darkness gathers, praise our

crazy fallen world; it's all we have,

and it's never enough.

Barbara Crooker